She clicked her tongue. ‘I asked Gloria if it would be okay for two groups to come in their caravans. Three people in one, two in another. There will also be a tent with four people – which will need to be pitched on grass, obviously. I hope you’re not going to tell me any of that will be a problem?’
‘If Gloria agreed to it, then naturally, we will honour that.’ My mind raced. I thought about how many factions were now coming, and how many vehicles that would mean. ‘Parking might be an issue. Some of you might have to use the lane, and some of you might have to block each other in. But as you’re all from the same party, I’m sure it will work out.’
She murmured agreement. ‘Don’t forget they’ll need access to an outside tap for water. And somewhere suitable for chemical toilet waste.’
Toilet waste? I stared helplessly through the kitchen window at the sun glaring off the gravel in the courtyard. ‘We’ll sort something out. I’m so glad you called. And once more, apologies for the communication issues. If you think of anything else, please feel free to ring any time.’
I took a deep, calming breath as I hung up, but dread settled upon me. That made it thirty-four people, including kids, and where exactly were we going to put a tent and two caravans? Feeling a bit sick, I risked pushing myself over the edge, checking Geoffrey Turner’s site on my phone. Still nothing. I thanked God for small mercies.
Rupert was at the back of the house, inspecting shutters and flicking off peeling paint while the dog pranced around, chasing butterflies. He indicated the paint flakes showering the ground beneath the windows. ‘These are beginning to go. I wonder if Ryan might want some extra work at the end the season before he goes back to the UK. He should prefer doing these in the balmy autumn months here, compared with freezing his arse off on a rainy British building site. What do you think?’
‘I think we have bigger problems than repainting the shutters.’
As I relayed the phone conversation to him, his jaw fell by degrees.
‘What the hell does she think this is, a ruddy campsite? Bloody Gloria.’ When the dog pricked up her ears, he said, ‘Not you, you daft mutt.’
We trooped round to the courtyard, where he eyed the space. ‘The tent will have to go on the grass, maybe in the orchard, but there’s no stretch of grass with access directly from the courtyard for the caravans. They’ll have to stay on the gravel. One on either side of the exit, I reckon. That way, they can use the outside tap around your side of the house. As for chemical toilet waste, I’m at a loss.’
‘What about hiring a portable toilet and putting it in that corner of the courtyard? It would be perfect for the tent, and the caravans could use it for disposal?’
‘I’ll look into it.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘That nice big figure we looked at the other week? It’s diminishing by the minute. So far, we’re down by five new duvets for the airbeds, and a ruddy toilet.’
* * *
As I helped Rupert prep for the guest meal that evening, my phone pinged. A text from Alain.
What are you doing?
I texted back. More chopping vegetables. It’s all he trusts me with. Meringues are beyond me.
They’re beyond me too. Any progress today?
One double-booking pacified. The other a lost cause, I’m afraid. Julia’s added two caravans and a tent.
Should be interesting.
What are you doing?
Promised my niece and nephew I’d read to them before bedtime.
I smiled as an image of Alain curled up reading to small children came into my head. It wasn’t something I’d thought about before. Do you enjoy that?
They’re sweet, cuddly and still relatively innocent. Can be monsters, but not too manipulative yet. I can hand them over if they won’t go to sleep afterwards. Best of all worlds.
Rupert looked across at me, pointing at my chopping board with his spoon. ‘Will those vegetables be finished before midnight, or are you going to carry on sexting all evening?’
I glared at him and turned back to my phone. Sorry. The boss is getting cross. Got to go.
Say hi to Rupert from me. Speak to you tomorrow.
‘He says hi,’ I dutifully told Rupert.
‘All that, just for a “Hi”?’
* * *
That evening’s guest meal was a darned sight pleasanter than the previous one – not that that would be hard.
Our two sets of new arrivals were happy not to have to schlep out to find a restaurant after their long journey – especially when provided with something like tonight’s prawn-and-salmon terrine, pork tenderloin in Dijon mustard and lentil sauce with vegetables, and homemade meringues drizzled with raspberry coulis. My waistline was only grateful that Rupert didn’t offer such delights every night of the week.
Alice and Duncan, Hugh and Bronwen were friends who had booked together – a foursome who were up for a laugh. And Pippa and Angus kindly refrained from mentioning recent events, bless them.
The table was set with matching cloth and napkins – although I thought the white linen was brave, with bottles of white and red wine in the middle. The wine glasses gleamed in the soft lighting that was keeping the dusk outside the windows at bay; the mingling aromas of Rupert’s cooking lingered in the air, tantalising our taste buds between each course.
‘I wish we weren’t leaving soon,’ Pippa said wistfully. ‘It’s so nice here. Heaven knows we’ve stayed at some strange places over the years.’
My heart lifted at the thought that she wasn’t holding the recent Turner shambles against us.
‘Angus, do you remember that weird one in Fort William?’ she went on.
‘Do I? The bedframe, headboard and built-in bedside tables were all red leather. When we were... you know... it felt like we were in a porn film!’
Pippa slapped him, but she was smiling. ‘The mirrors along the entire wall of fitted wardrobes didn’t help. Angus was convinced they were two-way, with a hidden camera behind them.’
‘Didn’t dare do it again once I’d got that idea in my head. Made me feel rather inhibited.’
Everyone laughed, Pippa looking both embarrassed and delighted with his confession.
‘We were once in a place in North Wales that was like an undertaker’s,’ Hugh told us. ‘The room was chock-full of artificial flower arrangements. One was even free-standing on a pedestal in the corner.’
Bronwen wrinkled her nose in disapproval. ‘You wouldn’t think it would be so distressing, but it was, and I couldn’t put my finger on why. Then I realised they were like those formal arrangements you get in funeral parlours.’
Hugh shuddered. ‘I could barely sleep. I kept expecting a headless corpse to jump out of the wardrobe in the middle of the night. And it didn’t help that the owner was really tall and thin, with dark hair in a widow’s peak like some kind of vampire.’ His expression was sheepish, but his eyes twinkled at the memory.
Alice smiled. ‘We stayed in a place where the heating consisted of something made out of a length of plastic pipe that you plugged in.’
Rupert shook his head. ‘How do these places get away with that? I have regulations coming out of my ar— I mean, out of my backside. Can’t move for ’em.’
‘Ah well, we’re going back a bit,’ Duncan explained. ‘But even so.’
Alice started to laugh. ‘I hand-washed my knickers and spread them over it to dry. It got so hot, it singed them!’
When the others expressed alarm, with deep laugh lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes she explained, ‘They were cheap nylon. We were happy with cheap thrills in those days, weren’t we, Duncan?’ She gave her husband a cheeky grin.
‘Yes, well, those cheap thrills weren’t so funny when I ended up on the floor,’ he grumbled, his balding head gleaming under a nearby wall light.
‘The mind boggles!’ Rupert muttered drily.
‘It was a twin room. Being young and keen, we pushed the beds together, only they were different heights. Some time in the night, t
hey drifted apart – and muggins here had been lying in the middle, over the join.’
‘Ha!’ Alice could barely speak for laughing. ‘He got stuck right down the gap, both arms and legs still up on the bed and the rest of him firmly wedged on the floor in the middle!’
‘I think I can top that one,’ Rupert joined in. ‘When I was a youngish bachelor in my first flat, I decided to impress the ladies with black satin sheets.’
Pippa snorted with laughter, causing wine to shoot up her nose and making everyone laugh before he’d even got started.
Rupert wagged his finger reproachfully at her. ‘We’re talking mid-eighties here, Pippa. Things like that were the height of sophistication back then. Anyway, there they were, smooth and shiny on the bed. And I was wearing red satin boxers to further impress.’
There was another tipsy giggle from Pippa and an inelegant snort from Hugh.
‘My quarry – long-legged and beautiful – was sitting in the bed waiting for me. Full of enthusiasm, I took a run-up to the bed, launched myself onto it, satin met satin, and I went flying right across and off the other side. Concussed myself on the bedside cabinet.’
The sound of delighted laughter filled the kitchen, making me feel ridiculously happy. Whatever happened with Geoffrey Turner, he couldn’t take this away.
It was well after midnight by the time Rupert and I had cleared away. As I was about to collapse into bed, out of habit I checked my mobile on the bedside table before turning it off.
Three missed calls from Nathan.
5
I rose at five thirty after bugger-all sleep. What the hell did Nathan want?
Making use of my time, I sat with my laptop at my bedroom window. Still no review on the Silver Fox blog. I e-mailed my Chenonceau page to Nick, then decided that since the website wouldn’t be sorted for a while – poor Nick had paid work to get on with, after all – I should get started on a leaflet giving bullet points of what I intended the agency to be and do, maybe detailing extra marketing services I could offer. It would be useful for Rupert and me to have on us, in case someone showed an interest, and it would be easy to e-mail if necessary.
At seven, I sorted out the chickens and began on breakfast. I would phone Nathan as soon as I had the table ready.
He beat me to it. ‘Em. Where the hell have you been? I tried calling you all last night.’
‘Sorry. I was busy, and then it was too late to call you back.’
‘Busy doing what?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Working. What’s up?’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re swanning about sunning yourself in France while I’m up to my ears in phone calls here.’
Hearing guests on the stairs, I bit back a response. ‘Hold on a minute.’
Smiling at Pippa and Angus, I told them to help themselves, then apologised and took myself off to the bottom of the garden.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked him, once I was out of earshot.
‘The flat, that’s what’s wrong. Thank you so much for nominating me as the contact for the agents.’
I took a deep breath. ‘We are both down as contacts, Nathan, but we discussed this. Since you are in the UK, you have to be the first point of call. I can hardly come all the way back to Birmingham for a dripping tap, can I?’
‘It’s hardly a dripping tap, Em. We have no tenants.’
‘What? But it was all agreed! The agent said…’
‘The couple they’d found changed their minds.’
‘They can’t do that!’
‘Yes, they can. They hadn’t signed the contract yet.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. That agent gave me the impression it was all signed, sealed and delivered.’
‘Well, it wasn’t quite, it turns out.’
‘Will he get someone else?’
‘He’s making it a priority, whatever that means. In the meantime, the mortgage is due, and there’ll be no rent to cover it. Make sure your half is in on time, Emmy.’
I didn’t like his tone. We’d kept an account open for the sole purpose of dealing with the flat, and that involved trust on both sides. ‘I could say the same to you.’
‘I’ll keep up my end of the bargain. I ought to be taking a fee for dealing with all this crap.’
The nerve! ‘Let’s call it quits for the crap you put me through, shall we?’
I clicked off the phone and stood for a long time, staring at nothing.
Oh, this was not good. I’d based my finances on the mortgage being paid by the rent. Now there was no rent, I might have to dip into my savings. What if we couldn’t get anyone? The rental agents had assured us it was a desirable property, but even a couple of months would make a big dent in money I didn’t want to touch.
I thought about what Nathan had said, about me swanning about in the sun. If he’d been standing there in front of me, I might have throttled him. He was earning good money in London and living rent-free with Gloria in a flat that belonged to the man he stole her from. And although I, too, was living rent-free, it was on a far more moderate wage. I simply didn’t have the disposable income to cover mortgage payments.
My stomach felt heavy and sick. I couldn’t afford for the flat to stand empty. If that was going to happen, I might have to persuade Nathan to sell – and who knew how long that would take?
The minute breakfast was out of the way, I shut myself in Rupert’s den to phone the letting agents. The call was as unsatisfactory as I’d thought it would be – a confirmation of what Nathan had said. In a tone that brooked no nonsense, I laid it on thick about requiring tenants as a matter of urgency, or we would have to look at switching agencies or perhaps even selling. They got the message.
‘Everything okay?’ Rupert asked me as I came out. ‘I passed by the den and you sounded rather… forceful.’
No point in hiding it. I told him.
He blew out a breath. ‘Damn. I honestly thought it was a great idea to rent that flat out. A sale is so much more complicated when you’ve just split up, and it takes time. And I thought it would be good for you to stay on the property ladder in the UK, just in case.’
I shot him an alarmed look.
He immediately patted my hand. ‘Not because I might go bankrupt overnight or sack you for the Backfiring Blogger Balls-up. I won’t change my mind, Emmy. I want you here, and I can afford to pay you what we agreed as long as we keep steadily busy – which, I admit, seems to be a bit of a battle at the moment. But I’m enjoying more time with the dog and less worry and hard work in my old age. I only thought that keeping a foothold in the UK would give you peace of mind, in case you decide you don’t like it out here.’
I glanced through the patio doors at the glorious garden and remembered that Alain’s return was just over a week away. ‘I can’t see that happening any time soon, Rupert.’
‘Well, then. You’ve already been proactive, phoning the agents. Keep at them. I’m sure Nathan will do the same. If they have both of you on their backs, they might make more effort.’
‘I will. Did you get anywhere with the caterers yesterday?’
‘I’ve spoken to several on the phone. They were all unimpressed with the short notice, but I have meetings with a couple later today.’ He slapped his forehead. ‘Although the numbers I gave them will be wrong, what with the ruddy campers, won’t they? How many is that now?’
‘Thirty-four, if you count a baby and a toddler.’
He sighed. ‘Okay. At least I know before I meet with the caterers. No more temporary dwellings she hasn’t told us about?’
I laughed. ‘Not as far as I know. I’ll go into town and order the cake. Any recommendations?’ There was more than one pâtisserie in Pierre-la-Fontaine – there was more than one of anything that involved food in the town – and I could do without trawling them all.
‘The last time I had to order something for a guest, I used the one a few doors up from Sophie’s salon, same side of the street.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
I parked up and walked to the main square, where a combination of being pleased with my take on Chenonceau that I’d finished that morning and a desire to put off braving the pâtisserie meant that I spent the first half hour taking photos of the white and cream buildings in the main square, the town hall, the colourful flowers surrounding the stone fountain, and jotting down notes.
Glancing towards the top of the square, I thought about catching up again with Rupert’s friend Jonathan at their favourite café next market day and smiled. I wondered if Jonathan would follow through on his previous threats to claim me as his Girl Friday if I ever came over here. No doubt I would find out soon enough.
Finally out of excuses, I took a deep breath, stepped into the pâtisserie and started my mission.
I managed a confident greeting and to get the idea across that I needed to order a special cake. But it turned out that confectionary could be a minefield in a foreign language. Size, type of cake, type of filling, type of icing, colours, trim, decoration, ribbon… and there I was, thinking I’d been clever because I’d looked up beforehand how to say it was for a fiftieth wedding anniversary and couldn’t have any cream or nuts due to allergies.
The middle-aged lady behind the counter was friendly and unfailingly polite, and the process was mercifully aided by photos she had on a tablet, so I could accept and reject their various features. Her patience was finally rewarded with my order – the price of which did nothing for my blood pressure until I reminded myself it was Julia who would be paying for it – but I left feeling exhausted and rather deflated.
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